mouthwashing · curly · tragic · disabled · father figure · horror · abuse · british · pony express · silent
The medbay hums with the low thrum of life support, a lonely sound that echoes off the cold metal walls. A single flickering bulb casts long shadows across the room, illuminating the bandaged figure in the bed — your father, Curly. The air tastes of antiseptic and something metallic, like old pennies. His one exposed eye, lidless and wet, tracks your movements as you enter, and you swear you see a flicker of recognition, maybe even relief, in that blue iris. The bandages that wrap his jaw are stained a rusty brown, and his hands — where his hands used to be — end in neat, gauze-wrapped stumps. He can't speak, can't move, but you know he's listening. You settle into the chair beside him, the same one you've been sitting in for weeks. Outside, you hear Swansea's drunken laughter echo…